


sugar

by AngriestPotato



Series: arbitrary smut challenge [6]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Pining, Semi kinky sex, sugar daddy-ish relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngriestPotato/pseuds/AngriestPotato
Summary: You're not supposed to catch feelings, you do anyway. So much for trying to be a successful sugar baby.





	sugar

His name catches in your brain. It’s honestly a beautiful thing, a miracle of mnemonic coincidence, and you can almost taste it, taste _him_ : dark and cream smooth, with the barest hint of sweetness.

Your palate recognizes him, _Ganauche_ , stores away his affected French accent and the errant smudge of confectioner’s sugar over the corner of his mouth; the smile that turns hungry, his eyes narrowed with pleasure like a cat’s.

He’s a stranger in a nice suit, quickly joined by a couple older men sporting equally smart clothes but much harsher looks. You don’t need to have been born in this town to suspect what it means, your couple years of living in Palermo are enough to recognize the gentle hands and iron will of the Vongola, this town’s worst kept secret.

In hindsight, you realize all of Ganauche’s secrets are very badly guarded, perhaps because he simply doesn’t like them. The past is a fluid thing for him, mostly not worth his attention, decisions made and things abandoned; from his birth name, burned into Sicily’s infamy generations before he came around, to the apartment he “lends” you and the relationship between you, he makes no attempts to hide his intentions.

That’s how he breaks his business to you too, cleanly, soft as small talk against your lips after the first night you end up fucked out and giggly in his bed. “ _I’m a monster, chaton,_ ” he presses his confession into your skin, biting and nipping when you laugh at his French; looks into your eyes, surprised, doubtful, true for the first time and even the light of morning stops in the sky.

“Say it to me in Italian,” you ask.

He does and the name sticks. You don’t mind it, either the endearment or the business, which is a fun thing to try and explain to his family, or so he says; when he comes back to this flat, to _you_ , when he blushes the moment you figure out his age, when he holds you and fucks you and eats your pastries he’s just a man. A man that, with time, you fall in love with.

You keep that to yourself, content in being his kitten; you live a cozy life thanks to him and it’s only because of him that you had the chance to quit the café where he met you and set up your own pasticceria. He’s done so much for you that asking for his heart feels like trying your luck.

He doesn’t know that you love him, of fucking course he doesn’t, he’s always been a fool –Coyote loves to remind him whenever he saves his ass– and he’s double one when it comes to you. You’re his favorite accident, he’s charmed by the way you bake and taste and move; all for one cookie, a single impulsive choice to duck into a café because Timoteo kept having these early meetings that he couldn’t survive without caffeine and sugar.

You deserved better than that place, he knew it from that moment, he convinces himself of it every time he sees you smile and offer him rent now that you can afford it. Actually, Ganauche’s sure you deserve the world, so he gives it to you; he gives and tries to ignore how fucked in love with you he is.

But he can’t help his chest from tightening when he comes into the flat that night after a rough couple of days to see you in full lingerie, reaching for him before he’s even made it through the doorway. The smile on your face shifts to worry so fast that it drags a chuckle out of him and his own grin is barely bloody as you kiss his split lip, chaste and feather light, too little for the shitty week he’s had.

He whines outright, follows as you pull away and tugs you back with both hands on your hips, digging his fingers into the lace until he imprints the pattern into his skin. You let him, _god how fucking sweet you are_ , only objecting when the metallic taste fills both your mouths and it’s not even that that bothers you, it’s how he doesn’t react to it, doesn’t flinch at the pain.

“Wait, love,” your hands cup his face, make him focus on your smart eyes, “sit down for a minute for me, okay?”

He does, sinks onto a chair, dragging his palms down with him so he still has a good grip on your thighs; his body sags forward with a relief he didn’t know he needed and he presses his forehead to your sternum where he can feel your heart hammering away in double time.

“What happened to you?” the question is so quiet he almost misses it, too focused on the way you rub little circles over his shoulders, the back of his neck.

_You don’t want the details_ , he thinks, nuzzling against your skin instead; he brushes the tip of his nose upwards between your breasts and feels goddamn swollen with love when the movement tickles a huff of laughter out of you. You kiss him then, frowning but melting into his hold, finally settling over his lap, and the truth just slips out of him unprompted and unwanted.

“Don’t make me say it,” he can hear himself as if he was a boy again, depending on his brothers just to get through what they have to do.

“Okay,” you slip your touch under his clothes, undoing buttons slowly, “it’s done now, bonbon, you’re here.”

_He’s here_ , it beats in your chest like a mantra. And you mean it, it’s done, whatever it was, and he’s here anyway; it almost makes you cry, the firmness of him, the tangibility. Ganauche’s hips roll, dragging against yours, making you moan; it’s hungry again but this time it feels as if he’s really there, not simply running from something. His hands bunch up your lingerie, tear at the lace and you’re lost in those violet eyes of his, keening and panting.

His belt is off in record time, slacks undone so you can work him to full hardness, try to get your mouth on him before he’s two fingers deep in you.

“Please,” he presses kisses wherever he can reach, your hair, your temple, earlobe, neck, jaw, “let me get this sweet pussy around me. Lemme…”

He trails off, like his breath isn’t enough to keep going, and he groans when you attempt to take the head of his cock with his fingers already stretching you. It’s desperate and a little irrational but you don’t care; your body allows it, used to him, to being overfull and wanting more still.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” he says, thrusting and curling his fingers, bearing down on your clit with his thumb, rushing you along to come with him.

You sob, grinding back, attempting to match his speed and tensing with an orgasm that feels too big, like it would tear you apart, but Ganauche holds you together, keeps you in a single piece until he’s spilling into you, unmade himself.

“I love you,” it’s rushed, like the whole phrase comes out of him in a single breath, spoken against the hollow of your throat.

He doesn’t stop you when you pull away to look at him, doesn’t move when you push the white bangs back from his face and lean in, just stares, painfully sincere, and gives you a sad excuse for a smile that threatens to break your heart.

“I love you too, Ganauche, don’t you look at me like that.”

“Don’t lie to an old man, kitten,” his laughter comes out surprised, disbelieving.

“You’re barely fifty.”

He fakes a gasp, looking properly scandalized but he says it again, folds you into his arms and repeats it, blurring the words together, changing tone and inflection, trying to find a way to make it fit all the feelings he’s been repressing for months. None sound just quite good enough, but he’s pretty damn sure that, now that he can, he’ll never get tired of telling you he loves you.


End file.
